


before the strategies begin

by shoebox_addict



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Drinking to Cope, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Bus Ride (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 03:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20057113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoebox_addict/pseuds/shoebox_addict
Summary: He had to begin somewhere, but he didn’t know quite where that was. If he sat in silence, Aziraphale would fill the space with pleasantries and strained compliments about Crowley’s flat. They could easily pass the entire evening that way. Crowley couldn’t let that happen.





	before the strategies begin

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from “Deadlines and Commitments” by The Killers. It’s not necessary to listen to that song or even to know it, I just wanted to add the disclaimer. This fic is the product of my brain marinating in all things “Good Omens” for the past few weeks, and it’s thanks at least in part to everyone whose fics I’ve been reading -- you’re all wonderful!

The bench was a bit cold, but that mattered little in the grand scheme of things. Mere hours before Aziraphale had been fairly convinced the world was coming to an end. What was a cold bench compared to that? Crowley passed him the bottle again and Aziraphale took a grateful swig. The wine warmed his bones but did nothing to calm the odd orchestra of nerves that had begun tuning their instruments in his abdomen. The first violin gave a little twang of its strings when Aziraphale handed back the bottle and his fingers brushed against Crowley’s. 

Once the International Express man had come and gone, there was no reason for them to sit on the cold bench any longer. Before long the bus that would miraculously make its way to London came barrelling down the country lane. As it approached, Aziraphale realized he had nowhere to go. There was no place left for him in London, thanks to the blaze brought on by a mislaid candle. An idea bloomed in his brain, and the timpani began a low rumble near his navel. 

“I suppose I should get him to drop me off at the bookshop,” he said. He could feel Crowley looking at him, but he stared out at the road. 

“It burned down,” said Crowley. “Remember?”

Now Aziraphale turned to face him, and the sadness he saw there made the flutes begin a taunting tune. It was a tune he knew well, from many evenings spent in the erstwhile bookshop. For years, perhaps even decades, he’d kept the orchestra of nerves at bay. Each time they flared up again, threatening to push him into something foolish, he’d tamped them down. There were rules, after all, and consequences to one’s actions. But the tune was more enticing now, and Aziraphale could just about succeed in convincing himself that it was due to his apparent homelessness. 

“You can stay at my place,” Crowley continued. “If you like.”

Aziraphale stared at him, and the orchestra finished its warm-up. Now they began their opening song, and he felt the melody overtake his brain. He allowed himself to feel a split second of glorious opportunity -- he knew how to indulge now and again. But he was quick to turn it off, to find his resolve. 

“I don't think my side would like that,” he said. It was the old standby. Heaven would disapprove, it was hard to argue with that. 

“You don't have a side anymore,” said Crowley, always quick with a response. “Neither of us do. We're on our own side.”

It sounded like a temptation, like one of Crowley’s clever quips that seemed designed to squirm into Aziraphale’s brain and counteract his angelic instincts. But this felt different; there was something in Crowley’s tone that was more like delivering a hard truth. He wasn’t trying to convince Aziraphale of anything -- for once. He was simply stating the facts. 

“Even so,” said Aziraphale. The orchestra was a low rumble, a niggle at the back of his mind. “We must keep up appearances. After all, now that the world is not going to end, we have to think about the future.”

Crowley looked tired, tired from something even greater than the ordeal they’d just been through. Aziraphale felt a guilty twinge at the thought that he might be the reason for that fatigue. “Yes. We do, don’t we?”

“Well, indeed,” said Aziraphale. “It’s been quite the week, and I suppose I need to start making amends.”

“Amends?” Crowley frowned, his eyebrows angled sharply downward. 

“Yes, I...I know the people upstairs will be rather cross with me over this whole debacle,” he said.

“Particularly, I would assume, your association with me.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Mmm, quite. To say nothing of the flaming sword.”

Crowley snorted and shook his head. “All the same. Just stay at my place, angel, yeah? If anyone comes for you, I’ll be ready with some hellfire. They can blame it all on me, that’ll be fun for them.”

Aziraphale cast about hopelessly for some other solution to his problem. Short of miracling himself a new flat, he couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. He glanced over at Crowley and found an earnest expression on the demon’s face. Aziraphale was reminded of the previous day, when the Bentley had pulled up outside his bookshop, and Crowley had begun spouting nonsense about Alpha Centauri. He’d never seen such desperation, such longing, from his old friend. There was less urgency in Crowley’s invitation now, but the earnest feeling behind it was almost alarming. 

The bus was empty, save for the two of them. Sweat prickled along the back of Aziraphale’s neck as he followed Crowley to a pair of seats. The orchestra picked up where it had left off, continuing its familiar tune, but suddenly it was approaching a crescendo that Aziraphale didn’t recognize. The song was pushing past its usual stopping point and growing into something new. 

Before he even sat down, Aziraphale made a decision. He watched Crowley take his place next to the window, and as he took the seat beside him, Aziraphale placed his hand on top of Crowley’s. It was a delicate touch, one that could be quickly recalled in case he’d made the wrong move.

Crowley looked up at him, a shocked look on his face, and an aria blared in Aziraphale’s ears.

*************

It was a long trip back to London, and Crowley’s arm was stiff from keeping it in one position the whole way. When the angel had placed his soft hand on top of Crowley’s, Crowley’s heart had nearly leapt out of his chest to jog beside the bus. When, halfway home, Aziraphale’s downy head had tipped sideways onto Crowley’s shoulder, his whole body locked up. A furtive glance told him that the angel had dozed off, and he didn’t want to disturb him. He slept so infrequently, unlike Crowley, and if he was falling asleep on a bus then he must truly need the rest.

As they pulled up in front of Crowley’s building -- an unscheduled stop that the bus driver would need to explain to his boss -- Crowley gently poked Aziraphale in the chest. 

“What?” said the angel, eyes flying open and head jerking up. 

“We’re here,” said Crowley, simply, trying to ignore the way this tousled look made him feel. 

“Oh. Yes, of course. Terribly sorry, did I drop off just now?”

“A few miles back.”

“Good Lord, I’m not sure what came over me.”

Crowley shrugged. “Chalk it up to defying Heaven and holding back the floodgates of armageddon. What do you say we leave this man’s bus now, eh?” 

Aziraphale stood up, shaking the sleep from his head, and Crowley tried not to think too deeply about how it felt when that warmth left his side. He followed the angel off the bus, giving the driver a curt salute. As they walked up to the building, Crowley very pointedly avoided looking at the spot where his Bentley would normally be parked. Aziraphale’s head on his shoulder had been bad enough, he didn’t want any more heartache.

Of course, one can’t always get what one wants. Crowley had heard that song, only with Freddie Mercury singing the lead. Seeing Aziraphale in his flat, a most un-Aziraphale space, frightened Crowley. It made the events of the evening and of the past week that much more real. Yes, the bookshop was Aziraphale’s, but it was also neutral ground in some ways. It was where they did all their best drinking and talking. Now it was gone and they were forced into an unfamiliar space, in more ways than one. He didn’t know what to do with Aziraphale in this cold, overly formal flat. He would have to learn as he went along. 

“Tea,” said Aziraphale, as though it were his flat and he was being a good host. “Tea seems like just the thing. Do you have any tea?” 

“Er, maybe?” said Crowly. “Might be some in one of the cupboards.” 

Aziraphale bustled into the kitchen and began opening the cupboard doors in search of tea. Crowley leaned in the doorway, hands in his pockets, just watching. With each empty cupboard, Aziraphale’s expression grew more aggrieved. 

“Good God, man,” he exclaimed. “You haven’t a single crumb in this kitchen.”

“Nah, crumbs attract pests,” said Crowley. “Better to keep things clean. Besides, I only ever eat with you.”

Aziraphale glanced back at him, and Crowley fervently hoped that his sunglasses somehow hid the blush he could feel creeping into his cheeks. He should really get some larger ones, those big fuck-off frames that hid half your face. He thought they might be in fashion again. 

“Well, be that as it may,” said Aziraphale, turning back to the cupboards. “You should have _something_ on hand, if only for situations like this.”

“I’m never in situations like this.”

“Aha! Here we are, you seem to have some ancient chamomile. Nothing that can’t be revived with some hot water, and perhaps a bit of a nudge.”

Yes, good, thought Crowley. Using miracles to improve tea was the most Aziraphale thing he’d ever heard. This felt normal, this felt like just another night spent in the company of a friend. He could count on Aziraphale to maintain their relationship just as it had always been. Aziraphale would never be the one to move the needle any further than this.

They had reached a stasis, it had become simpler to spend time together. But in the last eleven years Crowley had felt a mounting urgency at the very back of his brain. If the world really was going to end, how could he let that happen without bringing certain things out into the open? As it became clearer and clearer that they couldn’t avert the catastrophe, Crowley realized he’d have to make his move. Then he’d found the bookshop in flames, and Aziraphale’s familiar presence seemed lost to him forever. 

To be perfectly honest, Crowley had experienced more emotions in the preceding week than he had perhaps in his entire time on earth. Now he was caught in the middle of something new, as he watched Aziraphale putter around his sleek, modern kitchen. The apocalypse was over, and the reality of it all came crashing into him. Aziraphale was here, and Crowley had been given what so many never received -- a second chance. 

“No kettle,” Aziraphale declared, carefully shutting the last of Crowley’s cupboards. “I suppose I can make do with a saucepan.”

“There aren’t any saucepans either,” said Crowley, pushing away from the door frame with one sharp shoulder. 

Aziraphale stared at him. “I regret to inform you, my dear, that this is not a kitchen. This is a clever masquerade designed to trick you into thinking you have a kitchen.”

“What do I need a kitchen for?” said Crowley, shrugging his shoulders broadly. 

Aziraphale appeared to genuinely consider the question. “Fair point. No tea, then, I suppose. Unless…”

“Listen. Forget the tea, all right?” said Crowley, arms halfway to reaching out. 

“Some wine, perhaps?” said Aziraphale, glancing around the kitchen as though the empty cupboards had somehow stocked themselves in the past five seconds. 

“No,” said Crowley, emphatically. “Not now, okay? Let’s just...can we just sit?”

Aziraphale’s face was indecisive for several long seconds, shifting from confusion to worry to disappointment, and finally settling on a cheeriness that Crowley now recognized as false. “Certainly, old chap. It has been rather a trying evening.”

Crowley let the angel walk ahead of him so that he could roll his eyes extravagantly at his back. As they approached the sitting room, Crowley realized he had nowhere for Aziraphale to sit. With a wave of his hand, a squashy armchair joined his collection of angular furniture. He plopped down in a leather chair with an odd, curved back and watched Aziraphale settle into the armchair, wiggling appreciatively. 

“Thank you, by the way,” said the angel. “For the invitation.”

“Of course,” said Crowley, chewing the inside of his mouth. He had to begin somewhere, but he didn’t know quite where that was. If he sat in silence, Aziraphale would fill the space with pleasantries and strained compliments about Crowley’s flat. They could easily pass the entire evening that way. Crowley couldn’t let that happen. 

“So,” he said, and then his brain stopped. Maybe this wasn’t the time. Maybe this was an evening to let things lie rather than dig them up. Maybe it was destined to pass through meaningless words and half-begun sentences. He’d been given more time, surely there would be a tomorrow when he could try again. 

Giving up was within Crowley’s grasp, and then he looked at Aziraphale, nestled in the newly conjured armchair. His hair was still slightly ruffled from sleeping on Crowley’s shoulder, and he had a politely expectant smile on his face. He was ready to hear whatever Crowley had to say. Sure, he was ready now, thought Crowley. Just wait until he actually heard it. 

“I’m glad you came to stay,” he blurted out. “I mean. That is. You needed a place to stay. So I’m glad I could...provide.”

Aziraphale nodded once. “It’s a charming place. Not to my taste, of course, but very nice.”

“It’s not, really,” said Crowley. “It’s not practical, everything is too cold.”

“You were once a snake, you know.”

“Yes, well.” 

“Cold-blooded, and all that.”

“That’s, not actually…” Crowley trailed off. “You know what? Not important. Listen, er, I have something I need to tell you.”

“Oh?” said Aziraphale, now slightly worried. 

Crowley took a deep breath. Better, he thought, to put his head down and barrel straight through. “This is probably gonna sound really weird, but I just need to get it all out, so keep your questions ‘til the end. Er, so. I can’t actually believe that you’re here, sitting right here, in my ridiculous flat. Because, I...I felt you flicker away, Aziraphale. You were there, and then you weren’t. And you’ve always been there.” 

Crowley gave his brain a sort of mental slap, because where did it get off beginning with something like that? The words had spilled from his mouth before he had a chance to filter them, and that didn’t bode well for the rest of the evening. But, hey-ho, he’d already begun, so there was no stopping now. 

“When you left,” he said, swallowing roughly. “I didn’t know where to go or what to do, and I didn’t really care. As far as I was concerned, the bloody world could end and it wouldn’t even matter. Because, I mean, what’s the point? If you’re not here, what’s the point?”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, so softly that Crowley almost didn’t hear it. He wasn’t quite sure what was behind that small syllable, but he chose to believe it was agreement of some kind. 

“Anyway,” he said. “You’re here, and I just...it’s been 6,000 years, Aziraphale. You must know what I’m going to say. At this point, you must know.” 

Aziraphale touched a hand to his chest, almost unconsciously, and his eyes softened. Crowley had to look away; it was too much, like the soft head upon his shoulder on the bus. 

“Well, I’ve come this far, so I might as well keep right on going,” said Crowley. “Aziraphale, I--”

“Stop,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley looked up to see him standing. “Please.” 

“Why?” said Crowley, rising up to meet him. “Why should I stop? It’s been long enough. Just let me get the fucking words out, think of it as an act of mercy.” 

“I can’t...Heaven would not…” Aziraphale trailed off, eyes darting around the room. “I’m already spending the night in a demon’s flat, you can’t expect me to go any further than that.” 

Crowley’s heart ached for him, not because he wouldn’t admit to his feelings, but because he still thought he could change Heaven’s opinion of him. 

“Didn’t you hear what I said? Before?” said Crowley. “You helped avert their grand plan. There’s no way in, well, Heaven, that they’ll consider you one of their own. Not anymore. Besides, they’ve never treated you well. Lousy bunch of angels, if you ask me, if they can’t even be ‘angelic’ to their own bloody principalities.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Aziraphale, though he was frowning now. 

“You do,” said Crowley. “I was there, once, when Gabriel and his buddies dropped into the bookshop. It was back in ninety...ninety-four, I think. They interrupted a very important discussion, I was probably convincing you to try pop music or something. Anyway, I hid in the back room when they showed up, but I could hear everything.”

“That was a long time ago,” Aziraphale protested, wringing his hands. 

“Fine, you want something more recent? How about at the airbase today, yesterday, whenever the fuck. Gabriel wouldn’t listen and just told you to shut up. I mean, that’s not very nice.” 

“Well, I _was_ essentially tricking him,” said Aziraphale. “I shouldn’t have been speaking to my superior like that.” 

“Fucking hell,” said Crowley, throwing his head back and rubbing at his eyes. “Don’t you get it? You’ve been down here too long, just like me. We can never go back. If our days are numbered, we should do as we please. They’ll hate us no matter what.”

Aziraphale stared at him, a certain sadness behind his calm exterior. “I’m still an angel. That isn’t going to change. So, please, don’t say what you were going to say. That would be a mercy to me.”

“It’s just words, Aziraphale,” said Crowley, desperately. “It’s all just words, I’m not telling you to _do_ anything. I’m not trying to _tempt_ you, certainly.”

“I don’t trust myself,” said Aziraphale, in a rush. He clapped a hand to his mouth, as though the words had escaped and he could keep the rest inside. Crowley stayed silent, hoping that Aziraphale would do what he did best and fill the silence. 

Eventually, he did. “If you say...what you were going to say, I don’t know what I’ll do. All right? Yes, perhaps you’re right about the way that Heaven treats me, but I can’t change the fact that I belong to their side. You did too, once. I...I have to try and salvage it, do you understand? I can’t go on looking over my shoulder, wondering if they’re about to snatch me up and revoke my body. If I can just make things right again, we can go on as we were. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

“Oh, Aziraphale...”

Crowley trailed off, and they stared at each other for what felt like another 6,000 years. The angel swayed forward, the mere suggestion of what he wanted, and then rocked back on his heels. That was too much for Crowley, who took a decisive step forward and cradled Aziraphale’s face in his hands. There was no mistaking the way those pale eyes darted downward to the lips now perilously close to his own. Crowley closed the gap between them.

*************

The orchestra was back, and this time it couldn’t be stopped. Aziraphale found it impossible to dredge up his tried-and-true protests with Crowley’s mouth on his. As his hands moved up to cling at Crowley’s back, Aziraphale heard the new ending to this song. Crowley pressed closer and the flutes trilled in the background. Aziraphale opened his mouth, a subtle invitation, and the drums reached a crescendo as Crowley licked inside, fingers gentle along his jaw. Was this how humans felt when they were kissed? Was this how they felt when they accepted love?

They moved together so fluidly that Aziraphale barely noticed when Crowley pulled away, the ghost of his lips still there as an aftertaste. Their foreheads pressed together, their breath mingled, and Aziraphale breathed in the deep, heady scent of Crowley. 

“My _God,_” he said. His whole body felt flushed. “I didn’t know it could feel quite like that.” 

A grin spread across Crowley’s face, unbidden. “You don’t know the half of it, angel. We’ve only just begun.”

“No, we mustn’t,” said Aziraphale, but there was no conviction behind his words. “We mustn’t begin.”

“Too late for that, I’m afraid,” said Crowley. “This all began a long, long time ago.” 

He supposed Crowley was right. He could think of several rather important moments. One burned brighter than the rest and always had done -- the rubble of a church in London, a bag of salvaged books, the memory of a finger brushing against a thumb. He’d returned to that moment many times over the years, used it as a salve when the ache became too great. The thought that he could have more moments like that one, stretching out into the future, was almost too much to bear. 

Aziraphale’s brain, knocked back so thoroughly by this sudden realized dream, sent a burble of laughter up his throat. He giggled madly, pressed cheek to cheek with Crowley, who huffed out a confused laugh against his ear. 

“Tell me you’re not laughing at the kiss, angel.” 

“We’re doomed,” said Aziraphale, still laughing. “We’ve, we’ve...what have we done?”

“I think we’ve just done the crime we were already being punished for,” said Crowley. 

Slowly, Aziraphale stopped laughing, and then he was clinging to Crowley, arms snaked around his back and fingers digging into his jacket. “I think you may be right.”

Crowley said nothing, just held him. He pressed his face into Aziraphale’s neck, breathing gently against his skin as they stood together. This closeness was more comforting than any hug of which Aziraphale had been a part. Hugging Crowley felt like being enclosed in his wings, so much so that Aziraphale actually glanced upward to see if they’d manifested. Given the choice, he would happily remain here for the rest of the night. Reluctantly, he pulled back.

“How long do you think we have?” he asked, afraid of the answer. 

Crowley sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know, angel. Tonight? At least?” 

“We’ve wasted so much time,” said Aziraphale. He held the lapels of Crowley’s jacket, wanting to pull him close, wanting to kiss him again. Was it better to create more memories, or was it foolish to continue doing something that would soon be ripped away from you? 

“Don’t think of it that way,” said Crowley, one hand on Aziraphale’s cheek and the other pressed to his chest. “It was just a very long courtship. A bit unconventional, perhaps, but everyone moves at their own pace.”

“If that’s true, then we’re a pair of snails,” said Aziraphale, shaking his head mournfully. “Don’t the humans have a saying about slow and steady winning the race?”

Crowley opened his mouth, and then frowned as he considered this. “Yeah...I think they do, but it probably only applies when there’s a finish line worth reaching.”

“Oh, dear,” said Aziraphale. “That’s awfully grim. What...what do you think is at our finish line?”

Crowley shook his head. “Best not to think about it.”

Trying not to think about something had never worked for Aziraphale. In fact, if he was told not to think about something, the thoughts only became louder. This was most vexing when the thing in question was a key lime pie, and he didn’t know where to find one. He could have used a minor miracle to add it to the menu at one of his favorite restaurants, but instead he found himself trying to operate his ancient computer to find a suitable bakery. On balance, this situation was far worse than the key lime pie. 

“My dear,” he said, still holding tight to Crowley’s jacket. “Did you say something about Alpha Centauri the other day? Because, honestly, I didn’t give the idea enough credit at the time. I rather think it would be a lovely vacation spot this time of year, don’t you?”

“Aziraphale, don’t you think the forces of Heaven and Hell could also get to Alpha Centauri?”

“Well, yes, I suppose. But then why on earth did you suggest it?” 

“Didn’t give it enough thought,” said Crowley, shrugging. “I did realize they could find us there but, er...by then, you’d gone, so it didn’t really…”

“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale. “I’m so sorry I left you.”

Crowley’s expression turned unbearably soft in a way that Aziraphale didn’t think he’d ever seen. He could tell that, behind the sunglasses, Crowley was staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. The moment lasted for a split second, and then his face fell into its usual cool, disaffected arrangement. 

“Wasn’t your fault,” he said. 

“Even so.” Aziraphale was having trouble looking at Crowley. His mind kept replaying everything the demon had said, those feelings that Aziraphale supposed he’d been trying to tell him about for years, in his own way. A lunch here, a salvaged bag of books there, which all added up to a connection just as real and human as so many Aziraphale had observed in his time on earth. Foolish, really, that he hadn’t been able to see this one in front of his own nose. 

“If it had been you, who had disappeared,” he said, staring at the fabric of Crowley’s jacket, running his thumbs along the seams. “I would have felt the same way. I...why, I probably would have set my bookshop on fire anyway, with myself inside.”

“No,” said Crowley, suddenly stern. “No, don’t say that. That’s what I was afraid of finding.”

Unable to find an adequate response, Aziraphale finally pulled Crowley into another kiss. This was softer, slower, as though they had more time than they actually did. This time Crowley threaded his fingers into Aziraphale’s hair, which caused a surprising sensation stretching all the way to his toes. A moan escaped his throat, which made Crowley press closer and kiss him more desperately. When they broke apart, Crowley’s lips were swollen and red to match his hair. 

“What are we going to do?” said Aziraphale. The orchestra had long since set down its instruments, and now the joy and comfort that had bloomed in his chest were dueling with a strong feeling of despair. 

At first, Crowley didn’t answer. Aziraphale, tired of the impenetrable stare, reached out to gently remove Crowley’s dark glasses. Crowley blinked, startled by the move, and his yellow eyes darted around the room, searching for somewhere else to settle. Eventually, though, they returned to Aziraphale’s face, and he suddenly felt the full force of what Crowley had been about to say earlier. It was so apparent, so perfectly plain, that Aziraphale knew he was a fool for not seeing it sooner. 

“I don’t know,” Crowley said, at last. “I wish I did, but I really don’t.”

"Don't you have a plan?" said Aziraphale. "You always have a plan."

Crowley snorted. "Nah, you're thinking of quips, angel. I'm always armed with a full artillery of quips. That doesn't mean I have any concrete ideas."

“What are you talking about? You’re the one who came up with a plan to monitor the antichrist.”

“Yeah, and look how that turned out! It was the wrong bloody boy, to begin with. And that was all because I botched the hand-off, so you’d better just leave me out of the idea phase.”

“Oh, don’t be absurd. I need your keen, demonic mind,” said Aziraphale, smiling at him. “And we need to find a way out of this.”

Crowley stared at him, and Aziraphale could see annoyance and fondness battling in his gaze. He was beginning to think that the real reason Crowley wore those glasses all the time was to mask his true feelings. Aziraphale just kept smiling at him; this tactic had worked in the past, most notably when he’d wanted a fledgling little play called _Hamlet_ to succeed. It struck him that this was proof of just how long Crowley had felt this way about him. _Ever since Hamlet, perhaps before._ The thought was fairly intoxicating.

Eventually Crowley sighed deeply and rolled his eyes dramatically. 

“Fine,” he said. “Fine, I’ll get us some wine.”

*************

“Angel, you’re drunk,” said Crowley. “And you probably need a good night’s sleep.”

“I don’t sleep,” Aziraphale protested. “Don’t you realize, my dear, that the hours you spend indulging in that particular human affect are hours you will not get back?”

“But I’ve had so many hours,” said Crowley, adding far more vowels to those words than they actually contained. “Think of all the hours you’ve wasted eating cheesecake.”

Aziraphale gasped and stared at him, scandalized. “How dare you? Those hours were far from wasted.”

“I’m just saying, we all have our vices.”

“Sleep is a pointless vice,” said Aziraphale. He was quiet for a moment, and then held up one finger as though he meant to make a very important observation. “You know...now that we’ve taken certain steps, there are some...other human vices in which we might indulge.”

Crowley might have pretended to be scandalized by this, if only to rile up Aziraphale. But he was drunk as well, and he was too busy marveling at the fact that Aziraphale could avoid ending a sentence with a preposition even when sozzled. Anyway, the truth was that he’d already thought about Aziraphale in conjunction with that particular human vice on more than one occasion. Six thousand years was a long time, and Aziraphale had worn some very fetching outfits during that time. 

“Maybe so, maybe so,” he replied, taking another swig from his glass. “But not tonight, I’ve got a headache.”

Aziraphale surprised him by laughing heartily at this and shaking his head. Crowley gaped at him and pointed an accusatory finger in his face. 

“You _have_ watched television,” he said. “Don’t you dare try and deny it now, because there’s no way you’d get that joke if you hadn’t seen at least one sitcom.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, his laughter dying away. “I’ve also had many hours, my dear.”

Crowley propped one elbow on the arm of his chair and leaned his face on his fist. He hadn’t put his glasses back on, so he knew Aziraphale could see the way he was unabashedly staring at him. Frankly, he didn’t give a damn. If Aziraphale was right, and they were doomed, then he was all the more pleased about what he’d done that evening. Perhaps if they sobered up, Crowley could bring Aziraphale to his bedroom, and they could find out what happened when they did more than kiss...

“You know,” said Aziraphale, leaning forward slightly. His lips were wet, and Crowley wanted to join him in that plush armchair. “I think you brought out this wine for a reason. Were we not trying to think of something?”

“Yes,” said Crowley, miserably, his fist still smashed against his cheek. “I suppose we were.”

Aziraphale clapped a hand to his forehead. “Oh, Lord, that’s right. We need to do something about Heaven and Hell. How on earth did we get this sidetracked?”

Crowley giggled. “Are you joking? This is what we do, angel. This is what always happens when we need to solve a problem. We drink too much and never get around to solving much of anything.”

“Right,” said Aziraphale. “Time to sober up.”

When the wine had returned to its bottles, Crowley sighed and grimaced at the taste of his own breath. With barely a thought, a breath mint appeared in his mouth. He glanced up to see how Aziraphale was faring and was alarmed to find the angel sitting with his head in his hands. 

“What’s wrong? Is something wrong?” 

“Goodness, I’m not quite sure,” said the angel, raising his head to look at Crowley. “This honestly never happens to me, but I suddenly feel positively shattered.” 

Crowley stood up and placed a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Told you. You were dozing off on the bus, remember? Come on, why not try your hand at sleeping?”

Aziraphale groaned. "I told you, I don't sleep.”

“Right, well, your eyelids are saying otherwise,” said Crowley. “Feeling a bit heavy, are they?”

“Extraordinarily,” said Aziraphale. “This is absolutely awful, how do humans handle this?”

“By sleeping. Now, come on,” said Crowley. 

Gently, Crowley took hold of Aziraphale’s arm and helped him up out of the squashy chair. Then he blinked and they were in his bedroom. If the sight of Aziraphale in his chilly, sterile kitchen had been odd, it was nothing compared to this. With his dandelion hair and cream coat, Aziraphale stood out sharply against the midnight blue walls, dark grey carpeting, and black duvet. Crowley wished he could take him to the bookshop. He knew that there was a cosy bedroom above the shop and, though he might not use it often, its decor was all Aziraphale. But that wasn’t possible, so he would have to make do.

“This is all wrong, I know,” he said. “Would you like some -- I can’t believe I’m saying this -- would you prefer some tartan on the bed?”

Aziraphale beamed at him. “This will do nicely. For now.”

All Crowley could do was gape at Aziraphale as he shuffled to the bed. With two simple words, had he implied they might do this again someday? That they might have another place to share? Or was his brain addled by wine and fatigue? 

As Crowley climbed into the bed beside Aziraphale, he made the sheets a bit softer and the duvet more squashy, like the armchair. He watched Aziraphale settle back against the pillows, wiggling a bit as though to test them. Crowley couldn't believe he was here, in his bed, _wiggling_. As Aziraphale laid back and settled his hands on his stomach, Crowley dared to reach out and touch his hair.

"That feels lovely," he said. "When you did this earlier, I felt it all the way down to my toes. But this is rather relaxing."

Crowley just barely held back a rather embarrassing noise. It was almost too much, to lie here beside Aziraphale and hear him describe what he liked about the way Crowley touched him. He would do anything to have more evenings and mornings and lunchtimes like this. He wanted more chances to touch the angel in more ways. He wanted to explore his body, he wanted to make him feel good. If only he'd been more daring eons ago, even back in the garden, they could have had more time.

"Gosh, I'm afraid I'm going to be eating my words," said Aziraphale, his voice soft and feathery. "Because sleep sounds rather nice now."

"Don't worry about me, just rest," said Crowley. "I'll be right here if you need me."

Aziraphale's eyes snapped open and he glanced over at Crowley. "Really?"

Crowley indulged him with a smile. "I don't want to be anywhere else, angel."

Aziraphale returned his smile, but with just a dash of smugness. Then he let his eyes drift shut, the smile lingering on his face. Crowley watched as he dozed off, his breathing becoming slower. They didn't need to breathe, really, but the human body wanted to, and it was easier not to fight it. Crowley tried to fall asleep, but found that for once he wasn't a bit tired. Something deep inside him wanted to stay awake, just in case someone came in the night. They shouldn't both be caught unawares, and Aziraphale clearly needed the rest. Perhaps it was the stress of the day combined with suddenly being back in his old body.

He hadn't said what he'd set out to say, but he supposed the meaning was implied. He certainly hoped that Aziraphale could feel it when they kissed. He was sure he had. How could he not? Lying there, staring at the ceiling, Crowley began to worry that he wasn't clear enough. He'd babbled! Who could make sense of that?

Slowly, so as not to disturb the sleeping angel, Crowley turned over and reached out for his hand. As soon as their skin made contact, Aziraphale stirred and turned his hand to fit with Crowley's. Crowley, never one to waste a moment, threaded his fingers with Aziraphale's and squeezed.

"I love you," he said. "Wanted to say that earlier."

"I know, dear," said Aziraphale, his voice barely a whisper. "Of course I love you, too."

Crowley wasn't quite sure what was happening to him, but it felt like a sunburst radiating from the center of his chest. It was wonderful and terrifying all at once. He kept a tight hold on Aziraphale's hand and tried not to think about tomorrow. 

Then he noticed a slip of paper protruding from the front pocket of Aziraphale's coat. His hands otherwise occupied, Crowley squinted at the paper, and it floated toward him. As he read Agnes Nutter's final prophecy, he began to think.


End file.
